Claire Delacroix (101 page)

The woman’s eyes flashed so quickly that Rowan almost missed the telltale sign that he had found a truth. “I am no one,” she declared.

“You have studied in a convent,” Rowan insisted.

“I labored in one,” she corrected hastily, though Rowan guessed that was a lie. She shrugged, her composure in place once more. “Until I ran away.”

“Shunning the compassion and care of the nuns for the charms of that one.” Rowan jerked a thumb in the direction her former owner had taken.

“I did not expect …” she began hotly, then caught herself and said no more. She folded her arms across her chest again and glared at Rowan.

“You made a mistake,” he acknowledged softly. “And I think you have already paid for it. Pledge to me that you will not flee and I will remove the rope.”

“So much for your fine offer.” She turned to Thomas. “Are your knight’s words worth so little as that?”

Before Thomas could answer, Rowan clarified the matter. “I offered an exchange, but I have yet to have thanks and a smile.”

Her full lips tightened. “Do not hold your breath.”

“Then ’twill be a year and a day of labor from you,” Rowan declared as if he made such arrangements all the time, “for I must have something from my coin.”

In truth, he could not have cared less for the coin, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing she intrigued him.

She visibly gritted her teeth. “I shall not labor on my back.”

“I would not expect you to.”

“Nay?” Her skepticism was more than a little grating, and Rowan had the urge to provoke a response from her.

“Nay,” he retorted. “I like my women lean and lithe.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously and Rowan darted backward, not the least bit certain that she would not strike him. Instead she loosed a string of Gaelic so potent that it needed no translation. He knew she could not have learned that in a convent.

Ha!

Rowan grinned at her. “Your pledge,
ma demoiselle
?”

“If you touch me, I shall flee.”

“Fair enough.”

She considered him for a telling moment, her eyes no more than blue slits. “Then I swear it to you,” she said finally, her reluctance to accept his very generous offer more than obvious.

Rowan unknotted the rope, catching his breath when he realized the chafing was more extensive than he had guessed. “This must hurt,” he murmured, deliberately being gentle.

She averted her gaze. “One can accustom oneself to anything.” She was cold and composed again, though Rowan yearned for another glimpse of that spark in her eyes.

“Have you a name?”

Her gaze flicked to his and away. “Ibernia.”

“A lie,” Rowan concluded with a smile of appreciation for her quick wits. It meant literally “from Ireland,” something he would guess to be true judging by her earlier spate of Gaelic. “But ’twill do. And if you truly are of Ireland, then you can be of aid to me without rolling to your back.”

“How?” Her suspicion could have been construed as an insult by one more sensitive than Rowan.

“I seek a bride, the most wealthy heiress in Ireland.” He grimaced comically. “Sadly, I do not know her name.”

“You seek a bride for her wealth alone?” she demanded with one fair brow arched high. “How very romantic.”

Thomas—curse him!—chuckled again.

Rowan folded his arms across his chest, his good humor dispelled. “I seek her to answer a challenge from my brothers.” Her curiosity was undisguised, so he elaborated. “I have been challenged to a bride quest, to find the most wealthy heiress in all of Ireland and make her my bride.” He paused, looking the woman dead in the eye. “ ’Tis a challenge I intend to win.”

“My lord does love a dare,” Thomas interjected.

“Oh, I should like to see you lose,” Ibernia murmured with unexpected heat, “for you are too confident by far.”

Rowan grinned that she once again revealed her thoughts. “Indeed, the near certitude of failure is what made me risk this quest.”

Ibernia blinked. “Truly?”

“Truly.” He spared her his best smile, to no discernible effect.

She straightened, a daring glint in her eyes that made Rowan’s pulse quicken. “Then you will be delighted to know that the wealthiest heiress in all of Ireland is one Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.”

“Why should that delight me?”

Ibernia smiled fully then. The result was so fetching that
Rowan nearly lost the thread of their conversation, and he considered the challenge of winning this woman’s favor.

There would be high stakes of failure!

“Because she will not have you,” Ibernia declared with resolve. “There is no doubt of the matter.”

Rowan would not take that to heart so readily. He leaned closer and winked, well aware of his own good looks. “Because she likes her men less handsome? Less charming? Less amusing?”

Ibernia snorted with unwilling laughter, then lifted one hand to her lips to halt the sound. “Because she is already betrothed,” she said with satisfaction.

“Perfect!” Rowan cried, laughing at his companion’s startled expression. He gripped her waist and swung her into the air. “ ’Tis hopeless! We shall proceed to Ballyroyal at once.” He set Ibernia on her feet and touched one fingertip to her nose. “And you, my lovely
demoiselle
, shall guide us directly there.”

She shook her head, clearly marvelling at his response. “You are mad.”

“But oh-so-roguishly handsome,” Rowan retorted, taking advantage of her surprise to quickly kiss the tip of her nose.

Ibernia darted away, scrubbing at her nose with her hand, her expression wary. There was a glint in her eyes, though, that had not been there before. Rowan knew enough of women to not be fooled.

“You have granted me license to flee,” she reminded him.

Rowan’s surety wavered for only a moment before he recalled her own comment about their surroundings.

He smiled and gestured to the unsavory characters surrounding them. “Indeed, you are free to do so.” He bowed when she hesitated. “Although I should be honored to accompany you to Ballyroyal.”

She folded her arms across her chest, pushing her fine
breasts to prominence. Contrary to his own claim, Rowan admired the view, less inclined to lithe and lean women as each moment passed. “How very gallant,” she commented dryly, “to see my ends served to fit your own.”

Rowan grinned, liking her quick wits very well. “And your choice?”

“I will accept your companionship,” she said so regally that a blind man might have been convinced she had alternative options. Nay, this one was not bred in a gutter, Rowan knew it well. “If only to witness your failure.”

“Do not be so certain of it as that,” Thomas counselled in an undertone. “Matters have a way of turning unexpectedly in this knight’s presence.”

“Aye,” Rowan agreed with a wicked wink. “By the end of this, even you will not be able to resist me.”

That made Ibernia laugh outright for the very first time. There was a kind of satisfaction to be had in seeing her so surprised. Indeed, Rowan guessed that this year and a day might provide a very interesting pursuit, one beyond his brothers’ quest.

He liked the sense of Chance mounting against him. Rowan would woo this Bronwyn of Ballyroyal to be his bride,
and
he would seduce Ibernia before they parted ways. And there, Rowan knew well enough, would lay the greater challenge of all his days.

He could hardly wait to begin.

Ibernia.

She almost smiled to herself at the apt choice. ’Twas a lie to be sure, but not a bad one, especially considering the sliver of time she had had to concoct a tale. Indeed, she had learned much of late, including the ability to use her wits with haste.

And she supposed there was no harm in this knight knowing the land of her birth. Indeed, it provided adequate explanation for her knowing the circumstance of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.

Perfect. She matched her pace to his, noting that his retinue seemed to consist only of the fine destrier, a dark chestnut beast with a lopsided star upon its brow and one white sock. Its caparisons were of the same deep blue edged with white as this Rowan’s tabard; his insignia, the spurs upon his boots, his sword, and his obvious wealth declared his knightly rank.

His squire was a young boy of ten or twelve summers, admiration in the bright gaze he oft bestowed upon his master, his hair so dark as to be almost black. The boy was neatly garbed in the knight’s own colors, and he held a dappled grey palfrey beside the destrier. She was a much smaller steed and walked quietly, while the warhorse fairly pranced with cocky pride.

Not unlike his master. Ibernia swallowed her response, not wanting this man already so fond of himself to conclude that his company alone prompted her smile.

Though she was forced to concede—if only to herself—he was a good measure more handsome than her last master. And his touch had been gentle when he removed the rope. Its very absence made her feel free again.

Though she was not entirely liberated. ’Twas no small thing to realize that she must trust this man, this one who seemed to grant value to naught but a dare. Dread slipped through her and she feared she had trusted overmuch over-soon.

He had already challenged expectation with his fleeting kiss, though it had not been unpleasant.

Ibernia’s mouth went dry. She knew naught about this knight, yet she was in his power. How oft had she heard the
tale of a finely mannered man, even a handsome one, whose heart was as black as sin? Ibernia glanced quickly to the confident creature beside her and wondered at the wisdom of her wager.

God in heaven, had she impulsively made her lot worse
again
?

“Have you a name?” she demanded.

Her new companion winked, then executed a sweeping bow, right on the wharf, much to the amusement of all around him. Ibernia could just imagine what tales he prompted, making such a display before an obvious slave, and felt her cheeks heat.

This man would do naught without an audience, to be sure. That dread rose another notch as she wondered whether his gallantry would ease in private.

“Rowan de Montvieux, at your service,” he declared with a solemnity undermined by the mischievous glint in his eyes.

Ibernia did not know quite what to expect of him. “And you are a knight?” she guessed. “A man of honor?”

He laughed then, a rich sound that turned yet more heads. “Now, there is an association, Thomas, that cannot always be held to be true.”

“To be sure, my lord,” the squire replied with enthusiasm. “We have met many men of
dishonor
with spurs upon their boots.”

Such a claim did naught to feed Ibernia’s confidence.

“And which are you?”

’Twas troubling how his amber gaze locked with hers, no less how her heart skipped a beat when it did. And that impish smile, well, she had best not to ponder its effect overmuch.

No doubt this Rowan considered its merit enough for both of them.

“You care mightily for my answer,” he said silkily, and closed the distance between them with a quick step. His hand rose to her jaw and Ibernia did not dare give him a glimpse of her growing uncertainty. She held her ground, even as a tremble launched from her belly.

What would he do?

Rowan’s gaze fell to the chafe on her neck. His eyes darkened. Ibernia’s pulse leapt in terror, but his hand hovered above her skin, the heat so close to her own launching an unwelcome shiver over her.

To her astonishment, compassion gleamed in Rowan’s eyes. “I suspect you have seen much of dishonor in this world,” he murmured. His gaze locked with hers, and Ibernia did not know whether to flee or stare him down. She felt as if he could read her very thoughts; she had a fleeting conviction that he would kiss her again.

Perhaps not upon the nose this time.

Rowan’s frown was so fleeting that she nearly missed it. Then he shrugged and stepped away, as if he were indifferent to her presence. He turned his back upon her, and Ibernia had the distinct sense that he hid from her as readily as she would hide from him.

Though that made no sense at all. What had a carefree man like this to hide from anyone?

“Indeed, it matters naught in this moment,” Rowan said with a cavalier shrug. “For you have made your choice and will have to bear the price of it.”

With that, he strode in the direction of the town, clearly expecting her to follow.

Ibernia did not.

His words had not reassured her, though his manner might have done. Indeed, she was sorely tempted simply to flee. With her knowledge of the wharf, she could disappear into the crowd and Rowan would never find her again.

Though undoubtedly another unsavory character would. And ’twould mean breaking her pledge.

But thus far, Rowan had kept his word. And she had a sense that he
was
a man of honor, despite his hesitation to make any such claim.

Ibernia would have liked to have waited until Rowan noticed she was not fast on her heels, if only to make a point. But an unshaven sailor leered at her. Another reached for her buttocks and she delayed no longer.

“Where are you going?” she called, disliking that this unlikely candidate was her best chance for a champion.